Laying Down the Law
by Astra H. Lowelle
Summary: Mrs. Hudson insists that Sherlock eat a proper meal for once.


John couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had sat down to eat a proper meal.

Sure, the detective occasionally snatched a sandwich or something on the way to a case, but those events were rare, and John thought sometimes that if not for him, Sherlock probably would have collapsed from malnourishment at least five times over the past month alone. Even though he often insisted that he wasn't hungry and that John should stop trying to be his mother, Sherlock hardly ate of his own volition and often had to be coaxed to do it, and even then, it was usually just a sandwich or something snatched on the way to a case. But for the most part, John tolerated the detective's habits, even if he did not approve of them.

However, Mrs. Hudson was another matter entirely. She was a motherly person, one who cared for her tenants, even though she continually had to insist that she was 'a landlady, not a housekeeper'.

She had also, apparently, observed the same thing John had.

And it all came to a head one fine September day, when Sherlock's breakneck race down the stairs was curtailed by the landlady with folded arms and a no-nonsense look squarely on her face.

"Sorry," Sherlock said quickly, and tried to sidestep her. Mrs. Hudson would not be budged.

"Come eat something for lunch first, Sherlock. You're wasting away."

"Excuse me. I'm in a hurry."

"You," Mrs. Hudson said firmly, "are not going anywhere until you sit down and eat a proper lunch, is that clear?"

"_Mrs. Hudson!"_ Sherlock's eyes were flashing sparks. _"I need to be at the station!"_

"Lestrade said he needed you at three-thirty," the landlady told him. "I heard you yelling on the phone at him a few minutes ago. It's one o'clock now. You have plenty of time. Upstairs, right now. John, what do you have in the kitchen?"

John couldn't help grinning as Sherlock was hustled up the stairs by Mrs. Hudson, protesting all the way. "Not much, but I can go out and buy some things if you need."

"John!" Sherlock was offended. "I thought you were on my side!"

"I'd really like to see you eat a proper meal for once," John smiled. "I might even call Ripley's. Text me when you think of a menu, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll make some garlic bread and pasta," the landlady decided cheerfully as she shoved Sherlock up a few more steps. "Be a dear and run across the street for some tomato sauce, won't you? I'm nearly out."

As much as John was loathe to miss the fun, he went out to do as he was bidden.

-.-.-

By the time he returned upstairs with the shopping bag in his hand, Sherlock was seated at the table with a very sulky look on his face, and Mrs. Hudson was puttering around the kitchen making a wonderful-smelling chaos of pots and pans and foodstuffs. John inhaled deeply. Sherlock glared at him.

"Oh good, you've got the sauce," Mrs. Hudson approved, taking the can from John. "I hope Bently didn't overcharge- he's like that sometimes. Just set it down here. Excellent- the bread's nearly ready. Would you mind getting out the plates, John? _Sherlock,_ sit back down. Don't think I can't see you. John, is this cheese, or- never mind, I don't want to know. Oh, it is cheese. Good."

She took two plates from John and began heaping aromatic bread and pasta onto both, sprinkling the latter liberally with cheese and sauce. "Go sit down, John. Sherlock, you wipe that look off your face, this is my Great-Aunt Bianca's special recipe and it's never failed once. And you're not leaving until you've eaten it all, is that clear?"

Sherlock eyed his plate with some misgiving. "It's a lot."

John tried to stifle a laugh. The great detective Sherlock Holmes, acting like a petulant child. He was almost tempted to take a photo for his blog.

"If this goes on your blog, John," Sherlock muttered as he took a bite of bread, "then I will personally take your computer and smash it to smithereens, then boil the pieces, then burn them to ash, then mix them with castor oil and make you eat the lot."

"Getting creative, eh?" John wound some pasta around his fork. "Mrs. Hudson, this is delicious."

The landlady beamed.

A few minutes of quiet eating passed, in where John finished his pasta and some of the bread, and Sherlock huffily wiped sauce from his lip after every infinitesimal bite. "Mrs. Hudson, I can't possibly finish all of this."

"I don't care- you're not getting up from this table until you do."

Sherlock grouched his way through the remainder of the meal, with John looking on and unsuccessfully trying to conceal a broad grin.

-.-.-

He gave up on all efforts and burst loudly into unrestrained laughter, however, when he and Sherlock walked into the station and Anderson began complaining loudly about _what is that awful stench_ and _somebody smells like garlic breath._

All in all, it had been a successful and entertaining afternoon.


End file.
